Just Friends...?

One of the hardest things about dating someone is trying to get an idea of the web of their friendships. While you may meet the best friends if you make it through the preliminary rounds of courtship, and while you may be taken to places, parties, or events where you meet some of the outer circle, the "good for a fun time" friends, you'll never get to meet everyone, or neatly sort out all the knots of confusion into neat, tidy little bundles of friendship strings. What can be hardest yet is qualifying the relationship the guy you're seeing has with his girl friends-- as a woman, you always have to wonder...is there something else there? What is the best way to ask if there's something more going on between him and his female friend he seems to be very close with? IS there even an easy way to ask anyone this without sounding like a total freak of nature?

Recently, I've been driving myself borderline insane trying to figure out the answer to this question. While I may currently be in a relationship, and monogamous, and everything seems to be going well, that question that shouldn't be asked seems to keep rising its ugly green head and begging to be asked: You've been talking a lot about a certain person recently; is there something I should know about? I'm fragile from the answer to this question being answered incorrectly in the past, and I need more reassurance and feedback on it than the average, well-adjusted woman does because of it. I get that I may just be A Little Crazy about it. But at the heart of the matter lies an even deeper-seated question: Can men and women Just Be Friends?

My friend Robin doesn't think so. Robin and I spent 4 months studying abroad in Italy together, and hence got very close. Robin, coincidentally, has been the guy most despised by every man I've been in a relationship with since. When I got back from Italy, my current flame questioned me up and down about Robin, then snubbed him at a party later on when he showed up to say "hi" to me. Very early on in seeing each other, the guy I'm currently seeing asked for the 4-1-1 on Robin, himself. Poor, misinterpreted Robin is a believer in Ladder Theory, himself-- the theory taken from "When Harry Met Sally" that a man and a woman are incapable of being platonic friends without one desiring something more.

Maybe I should be appeased by the fact that the guy I'm currently seeing thinks that Ladder Theory is complete bullshit, and that he has many perfectly functional friendships with women that are purely platonic...from his side, at least, he admitted, one morning when we went downtown and I asked him about it as we waited for our breakfast sandwiches by the beverage coolers. Or maybe I shouldn't listen to that at all, as not five minutes later, a girl appeared, and they hugged, exchanged pleasantries as all around were introduced, and after she and her friends left, he turned to me, slightly pink, and said, "Well, that was kind of funny. She's had a crush on me for over two years, but I just don't find her attractive at all." Hmmmm. So, CAN a man and a woman just be friends, or is all my round-and-round, hamster-wheel worrying actually energy spent on something worthwhile to ponder?

I try to temper myself by reminding myself that I am an undeniable Guy's Girl-- I always have more platonic male friends than female-- and that at one time, one of my closest guy friends, if not my CLOSEST guy friend, admitted he found me attractive and tried taking me out for dinner before we both decided it was maybe a little too awkward. But nothing EVER happened, or ever even ALMOST happened, and he and my other guy friends would ask me to come over and just hang because, sometimes, guys just like to have a girl friend around. I get this. I know this. I am usually That Girl that my guys call to come over when they feel the need to have a double-X chromosome make up in the room to balance out all the testosterone. The Older Brother/Younger Sister/Best Friends relationship dynamics are now firmly in place. There's no question anymore about the fact that I'm just a chill girl. Nothing makes me happier than to have a beer in hand, sitting on someone's couch, watching a movie and shooting the shit in a sweater and jeans. But am I always perceived as such, especially when I'm dressed in heels and a sweater-dress, or am I always like that? No. And when I found myself dressing (relatively) up and re-applying my make-up one night after I invited my best guy friend out to eat dinner with me, I realized that if I am doing it, maybe I should cut other girls doing it a break, even if the thought of another woman whom I'm still ambiguous about her intentions out at lunch with the guy I'm seeing makes me a little queasy.

I've been benign about this thus far, but I've been relaxed about this in the past and it's come back to bite me in the ass, so I'd just like to be clear about what's going on. Maybe I need to know that I'm not the only one really sticking my pale neck out there, trying this thing on for real.

XOXO

Boys Are Made Of Snips And Snails And Porn And Gay Tales.

Relationships are often hard enough contending with other women; when a girl gets mind-fucked and finds out that men are included in the mix, it's often enough to send anyone off her rocker. I remember finding an ex of mine on a gay website. He had been so manly, so masculine, so snide about homosexuals, so normal, so badly dressed, so straight. And now THIS. The love of musicals and ass-appreciation began to make more sense. I FRRRRREEEEAKED. First, about the deceit and wondering if he ever even found me attractive, and second, about the fact that now I knew that he had, or was looking to have, sex with other men I now REALLY needed to get tested for AIDS, considering I'd had unprotected sex with him. Long story short, I was healthy and clean, and it was better to find out post-relationship than during, but a friend brought an interesting, related question to me the other day that brought it all back up again: While snooping around, she uncovered a few random gay porn sites that her boyfriend had visited in the past. What if your (straight) boyfriend occasionally viewed gay porn while doing his internet porn thing?

Between the anonymous, impartial jury of myself, my Gender Comm. class, my best gay friend, and my straight best friend, we pieced this together:

1.) Sexuality is a flowing thing, and curiosity is natural.

This image is the Kinsey scale. It denotes the 6 main (seven, if you include being asexual, which I personally don't count as being sexual AT ALL,) different kinds sexuality. I waver somewhere between 1 and 2, depending on my mood, and if I'm in a relationship (straight, only ever been straight,) or not. I say a 1 or a 2 because of a few facts: I've kissed some of my female friends while playing high school games of Spin the Bottle and not wanted to kill myself directly after; I always am aware of my Sexception List, or where in rank a list of famous women I find stunning and would possibly after a few bottles of shared tequila and in the right mood lighting I may attempt to sleep with if I was feeling my most self-confident of my life, or had taken a shit-ton of E beforehand, but nonetheless, I know the women I'd volunteer to be sexual with; I watch lesbian porn on occasion, of my own validation (see below for more). Does this 2 rating mean I'm constantly checking women out? Yes...but only to see what she's wearing. Men are the only ones who I scope in a sexual nature. You could be the bro-y-est of the Bros and still find yourself rating as a 1 or a 2 because of the fact you can never keep your eyes to yourself in the men's locker room, or that one time after winning the homecoming game got too drunk and tried to confess your feelings to your team's tight end (pun intended)-- "No man, I really, REALLY love you!" while in reality, your high school sweetheart Jennifer who followed you to college and still cheers is your Tru Luv 4eva and the only person you want to be with. You, sir-- are you gay because you're a 2? No, you silly boy, you're straight-- not a 4, 5, or 6.

2.) Do you and he have regular sex, does he initiate, and is it passionate? These are all good signs if you answered "yes," to them, and he obviously finds you attractive. Bonus points? My gay friend pointed out that most secretly gay, closeted, or even man-leaning bisexual men have an EXTREMELY hard time enjoying giving a woman oral sex. (Hint: You can't fake enthusiasm.) If he likes and is eager and willing to go down undah, congratulations, because at most, he's bi or at least bi-curious. At best, he's still your straight boyfriend.

3.) As my "extremely blessed in the size department of her lovers" best friend pointed out, penis envy is real. For some men, there's just something about looking at a cock bigger than theirs that really just does something to them. Just like women can look at a really great rack in fascination, men can appreciate a nicer penis than theirs. We are an aesthetic society, after all.

4.) Porn is a fantasy land. What someone views in privacy is often very different than what they want in their own life. Some people have rape fantasies or watch simulated rape porn. Does this mean that they themselves want to ACTUALLY be raped? No, not at all.

5.) As my best gay friend said, "He could be intrigued, but may not act on penis desire." In other words, viewing gay porn is the best and most healthy way for him to examine his own sexuality-- maybe he's not the sort of straight man who runs screaming at the sight of another man's naked body, but he also probably isn't looking for any backdoor love of his own from another man.

6.) Don't point your finger-- my first, knee-jerk reaction was "Whoa! Normal straight men are so turned off by gay porn! Your boyfriend could be gay!" but then I though about it, empathetically, from the female perspective. As I've stated before, I watch what is probably more than my fair share of porn. And occasionally, when everything else feels tired and old and nothing else seems to be doing it for me, I'll turn to lesbian porn, and no, not exactly the soft-core stuff of heavy-petting, either. For porn viewers, once you've seen it, it feels like you've seen it all, and variety can be called for. Does this mean I am a lesbian? No. Does this mean I can find something sexual or attractive about other women? Yes; then again, some days, I am convinced our garbage can is a stunning piece of craftsmanship and damn fine. Does this mean I would ever have sex with another woman? No. Threesomes are even out of the question for me-- I can barely handle my own vagina; I want nothing at all to do with another one. So, if a woman can watch lesbian porn, TO GET OFF, and not be a lesbian, than logic states that a man can watch gay porn, be turned on, and not even be gay at all. I have always thought, as well, even watching straight porn means a man is looking at another man's penis being used sexually, in a sexual way, so one could argue that all bits and pieces are exactly that, bits and pieces, and a woman's ass is just the same as a man's ass. Bada-boom. Is your mind bent? Because this is my own thesis, and my mind still struggles to bend around it, sometimes.

7.) If you want to see how he responds, or what the draw for him is, suggest watching porn together that you BOTH agree on. Maybe getting into his fantasy land a little will help you understand his viewing habits more, or at least make you a little more comfortable by being present and included in them.

When it boils down to it, you have to remember that if you love someone, you love the whole of them, not just the parts that you agree with. Just like you may not break up with someone when you find out they vote Republican (then again, you might!), finding out that the person you're seeing has some eclectic viewing pleasures shouldn't be a deal-breaker if you love the rest of them as a person. (This can also go if you find out your S.O is into porn with foot fetishes or extreme anal or produce or latex or dinosaur porn, too.) If you can learn to accept it, and as long as it stays in the fantasy of the porn realm, there's no reason to worry about you and your boyfriend macking on the same hot guys at the club. He loves you still. And no, he's not "flaming gay."

XOXO

NOTE! While I am in full defense of the fantasy of porn, if someone tries to move from viewing pleasure to being an active participant in anything from cams, chats, or full-on meetings and liaisons, that is a problem. In that case, there is probably more than a passing curiously or fascination at work, and this is something you REALLY want to address with him/her, for BOTH of your sexual safety. Also, the amount of porn someone watches is a health advisory as well-- porn addiction is a real thing, and is just as painful and detrimental to a relationship as someone being secretly homosexual in what is a heterosexual relationship.

Should We WANT To Lose Ourselves?

We all know the sayings: Lose yourself in the moment. Lose yourself in your work. Lose yourself to find yourself again. But should we want to lose ourselves in the first place? Lately, I've been wondering what good can come from losing oneself. I hate that moment in a relationship when you suddenly realize that you're not happy being alone anymore, or, at the very least, have come to expect that someone else will be around to entertain you. And when that's not the case, then that thought becomes an obsession, and it's like you're suddenly a half of a Siamese twin severed, who feels like they've lost their identity, or what was special about them. In many way, identity theft may be kinder than the moment in which you find yourself realizing you're losing yourself, or, at least, losing the things that used to make up your life or define you as an individual or Single Person.

The existential crisis started around 56 hours ago (and counting). Thursday morning, I was woken up by a text from TGIS, and we continued correspondence from afar until about 5 o'clock that night, after which, I haven't heard from him since. (Granted, I haven't been trying very hard, but that's because A.) I'm under the severe impression it's just better not to nag, and B.) I've always thought it gives you a better symptom of your relationship to see when he finally gets back around to you.) One day was fine. But when I woke up this morning, I felt odd, disoriented. And that's when I realized it was because I'm so used to waking up beside someone. Noon came, and I found myself still in bed, because no requests for brunch out had been made. By this evening, I was in full-out obsession mode about not only the state of my affair, but also, about what the FUCK I was supposed to do with myself and all this free time that had suddenly (and unwelcomely) been found on my hands. So while I may not be neuros-ing about it all over him, I found an outlet for it elsewhere: With my girl friends. Obviously. Because some things never change, even if your established weekend routine suddenly does.

I'm in my twenties. I'm so close to having my Bachelor's Degree in hand I can almost feel it; I paid for the insanely expensive and insanely luxurious Ralph Lauren sheets on my bed myself; I'm paying down my credit card; and I'm giving a presentation at a national writer's convention in Boston in March. My life is pretty fabulous, and yet, all it takes is two day's worth of silence, and I find myself acting like I'm 16 again, trying to occupy myself by making a list of things to do with items like "Wash dishes," "Moisturize entire body," "Watch a 'thinking' documentary to try to get my mind off of 'thinking' about the fact it is a weekend and I don’t believe it without another person here: Sexual Intelligence; Wild China; Food, Inc.; or Prehistoric Predators, Season 1," "Find some way to make a palatable drink with Skyy vodka, the dregs of orange juice, whipped cream that’s lost it’s whip, and anything else in the fridge, all while really just wanting a nice glass (or bottle) of wine," and "Try not to 'wine' anymore." It made me wonder: Do our lives really still revolve around boys?

Once upon a time back in sophomore year of college, my mother thought my friend Madison was secretly my lesbian lover. I can see why she might have thought that-- we spend an uncomfortable amount of time talking to each other. Mostly, I think, it's because we usually have equal levels of confusion in our lives, and think about things similarly. So it was Madison I turned to when asking, "Why do I always panic like this if I don't hear back from a guy for like, I'm not shitting you, two days? I mean, it's TWO DAYS. My sane self knows this. However, my relationship self is going mental. What I want to know is, why do I FREAK out?"

And then Madison said something very true, yet not very heartening at all: "Because you haven't had good luck with similar situations in the past."

Touché, my dear, and good fucking lord, there is no hope-- I'm done for.

I am not the only one who seems to be wondering about the ramifications of losing yourself for someone else. Madison has her own issues, too. "The problem is that I've always known that [I was letting him use me like a doormat]. I just kind of let it happen. And that's not me at all. And that's why I'm ashamed."

And that's when I hit my epiphany in our conversation: "Secretly, I think we're all ashamed at things we do in relationships or non-relationships with other people. Look at me-- I've forgotton how to be ok with being suddenly alone. I think there's something about wanting to be with another person that makes us crazy and makes us forget and sacrifice parts of ourselves because we want something else SO MUCH."

It's all so terribly ironic, because as I was driving home on Wednesday night after bringing TGIS back to his hometown, I was smugly reminiscing on this relationship versus past relationships, thinking to myself how you can be the person you're supposed to be and want to be when you're with the right person. Give me 56 hours of silence, and I'm still the confused little mess I was a year ago, give or take a different man, situation, and a few relevant learning curves. Look how far I've gotten on the road map to finding myself.

XOXO

So what about you? How have you learned not to lose yourself, or how to occupy yourself when you'd rather be doing something with someone else? Do you think that we're more willing to sacrifice parts of our lives and our selves if the payback of having the love of someone else is an option? Comment below and tell me what you think-- who knows, we might be able to solve all our relationship issues and neurosis together. Wouldn't that be a freaking miracle? What would the world do with so many more sane people?

Red Light, Green Light, No Lights?

Like any smart person dating or living, I have certain non-negotiables when it comes to men: He must do what he says he will do (have follow-through). He must have initiative (put as much time and energy into planning, talking, and general effort). He must have manners (ack rite, be a gentleman, and know how to hold a fork correctly). He must have self-confidence (sexy). He must love watching football as much as I do and drink PBR (because if you can't agree on your teams or your brews, what in life can you agree on?!). This is like the Holy Grail. I get that every other female on the face of the Earth is looking for this dude; here's hoping I'm just more tenacious in finding him.

And I'm getting closer, what with all these relationship lifestyle changes. For possibly the first time in my life, a guy other than my father or a very platonic male friend is treating me like a princess-- but one in a glass tower, wearing a chastity belt. It's quite possible I'm just hornier and used to taking the bull by the horns (or other things,) and just jumping into bed with it. This would not be a shocking world revelation. As the past has shown, this isn't always the best decision and doesn't tend to lead to being treated like anything more special then a really great lay, which is why strides are being made to Do The Right Thing Here and Play The Game. But it does bring up some questions, other than "Are you even attracted to me? And if not, then why do you guys do all of this?"

But I am not a man. Obviously. And sometimes, when playing with new men, I feel extremely out of my comfort zone. There are things that I know what they mean coming from a woman, but coming from a man, I am completely lost in translation. And when I get lost, I get, well...masculine. Instead of the sweet, flirty, lovable girl I want to be around the men I'd consider letting through the Pearly Gates, my masculinity comes out to play at the wrong time to take charge! and Just Do It. (Obviously, that one's trademarked by Nike.) But despite the gender-bending overtures, I'm still no closer to getting any of this, and I AM attracted! What gives?!

So, today, male readers, you get to do ME a solid and help me decode dude behavior and figure this out. Listed below are some standard actions of men currently engaged in the early stages of getting to know a woman. Preceding them are icons-- a G for if women interpret this behavior as "all systems go!", a ? if we're completely baffled by if this is a good or bad sign, and a R if we take this to be a complete failure in the interest of ever getting it on. Your job is to correct me if I've got the wrong end of the stick on any of this. And ladies, you're not left out of the game, either-- What are some other completely baffling men dating behaviors? Let's sort this the hell out!

[G] If he talks to you every day-- either via in person if it's possible, phone, text, chat, etc.

[?] If he talks about other women who were flirting with him. On one hand, maybe he's trying to feel out how you feel about him by seeing if you're jealous. On the other hand, maybe he wants help in picking them up. I have no idea how to feel about this one.

[R] If he brings up his past relationships. Dudes-- Unless you are asked, point-blank, to discuss your exes or another girl you had a "thing" with, or unless something pertinent happened with them which goes to explain a point in your current relationship-- it is bad form to bring up another woman while talking to a woman. Especially in bed. Don't laugh. That's happened to me, more than once.

[G] If he asks you about your sex life. Then he's thinking about your sex life. (Caveat: Some men are dogs and just want to inappropriately ask you about your sex life with no reason, and no groundwork beforehand. Consider them like hand grenades-- volatile, and apt to destroy with reckless abandon.)

[G] If he tries to validate himself to you as someone awesome-- bragging about prowess, financial status, work, school, or sport accomplishments, etc.

[G] If he initiates contact more than 50% of the time, and makes the plans. What a keeper.

[G] If he tells you flat-out that he wants to do things for you. (I think it's acceptable to take people on their word.)

[?] If he tells you what's wrong with him-- i.e: doesn't consider dating a priority, has anger issues, has mommy issues, has had trouble in the past keeping it between you and him and in his pants, etc. We call this the Lemon Law: Most guys will tell you within two weeks what's wrong with them, or what challenges you're going to face in dealing with them. The good news is, he knows what his issues are, and he's telling them to you. The bad news is, he's normally not so up-front about it-- it'll be snuck into conversation, so you have to be on toes about looking for it and/or noticing it. So, is this enlightenment, or something to fall back on later when he can look at you and say, "I told you I have issues with commitment"?

[R] If he admittedly is not on good speaking terms with his ex, other women he's been involved with, or a majority of people who used to be friends. How he treats or treated them is a great preview into how he'll end up treating you.

And then, there's a flip-side to everything. To make it all even more confusing, here's what it means when a woman does the same exact things. Guys, what you're looking at right here is what we ladies know. This is what we have to work with. So if something you're doing is getting lost in translation and interpreted entirely differently...here's why:

[?] If she talks to you every day-- either via phone, text, chat, or smoke signals, it either means one of two things: She likes you, or she's dependent on you. When women like someone, we want to talk with them, a lot, especially if there's physical distance between them and the other person-- say they don't live in the same town, or have conflicting schedules that makes hanging out difficult. I'm actually weird-- when I've got a crush on someone, I do want to talk with them every day, but after the initial honeymoon phase has worn off, every other day or every two days is enough space for me. However, I get highly dependent on the men in my life-- stopping talking to exes is extremely difficult for me to realign them as a major player in my life to a bench-warmer.

[G] If she talks about other men who were flirting with her. She's trying to make you jealous and see how you really feel about her. All the way. We do this purposefully, all the time, and unless you're the most platonic of our male friends or male coworkers, we're trying to feel you out if you're going to get all caveman on us and grunt, "No! You my woman! I make you mine!" and carry us back to the cave over your shoulder like we're hoping you will.

[R] If she brings up her past relationships. We're either not over it, or we're using it as a warning tale to you about what NOT to do, so, listen close, either way. Same rule applies: Unless he asks, leave it in the past.

[G] If she asks you about your sex life. She wants your bod. She wants you to do things to her no man has ever done before. She thinks you're Superman. Her body is a movie, and your penis is the star. (Thank you, The Sweetest Thing.)

[G] If she tries to validate herself to you as someone awesome-- she wants to show you how much better your life could be if she was in it, cooking you breakfast, helping you update your job resume, and making your buddies jealous you have such a smokin' and awesome girlfriend. Oh, yeah-- we think about. We want to make your friends as jealous as you do. Fact.

[R] If she initiates contact more than 50% of the time, and makes the plans. She's secretly a man. Or, at the very least, a severe micro-manager. And is more into it than you obviously are. Recognize it, and let her down gently. (Ladies-- don't lie-- we're liberated and if we can vote, we can sure as hell call him first, but we also know what it means when shit's going bad when you're the one hunting him down to talk more than half the time.)

[G] If she tells you flat-out that she wants to do things for you. She's a keeper. She's there to help. She really digs you, and she's willing to prove it. And if those "things" are sexual in nature-- never let her go.

[G] If she tells you what's wrong with her. Unless she's bat-shit crazy, a woman with issues knows that she's got them. I know mine-- see the note above about how I get masculine when intimidated by big, manly men, among many others. Best be sure I explain myself when it happens. If we're telling you what we get crazy-pants about, it's a good indicator that we're working on those issues, and want to forewarn and forearm you before the shit hits the fan and you're wondering what you ever did to deserve the way we're treating you out of the blue.

[R] If she admittedly is not on good speaking terms with her ex, other men she's been involved with, or a majority of people who used to be friends. Unless all these men and those friends were bastards (which, can be true,) she's a stark-raving psychopath. RUN AWAY, YOU DON'T NEED THIS TROUBLE IN YOUR LIFE. Even some of the most horrible break-ups can result in civil behavior or continued friendships and acquaintances. My most dastardly ex is still someone I spend time with. Granted, some of it is catty, sarcastic time, but we can be at the same place at the same time, nonetheless.

So, are we on the mark? Way off-center? Completely missing the point? Did you learn something? Can you teach me something? We'll all never know unless you tell! That's what that comment box is for.

XOXO

Stoplight Theory

There's a fundamental problem between the sexes when it comes to having the sexes: As popular television, the '50s, and hearing about your mother's chronic "headaches" may have led you to believe, we're very rarely in the same mood at the same time. Which can be good, or bad.

Men are kind of like stoplights when it comes to being in the mood for sex. There's "HELL YES," there's "You can convince me," and then there's "Get the fuck away." You can start a man out with "You can convince me," and get him to "HELL YES." It's all about waiting your turn and abiding by the rules of the road. Or, in this case, head. (You decide which.)

Women are not like stoplights-- we're like taxi cabs. Either our light is on, or our light is off. There's no convincing us to flick it one way or the other once we've already made up our mood. So when a woman's light is on, and as plain to see as if we were actually holding a neon sign above ourselves that read "Open For Your Business," in the iconic words of Sugarhill Gang, jump on it. Because when a woman is closed, she's closed. There's no changing her mind. Unlike with men, there's no amount of ego-stroking or caressing that can make her change the way she feels about your chances for that moment. Keep in mind, for a week out of every month, we're bleeding, and there are also the nights we eat or drink too much or just aren't feeling all that sexual. Even I sometimes wind up not feeling all that sexual. I've been working lately on the whole not-getting-drunk-and-having-sex-thing, and without that cushy fog of inebriation, it's true what they say: it makes you feel better about yourself, and when I'm not thoroughly convinced by the beer goggles that I am slammin', I'm winding up a lot more in the "off" camp than in the "on" camp.

This is why it sucks for you guys but why we women think men are great. There has to be a moment in every guy's life when he realizes that the "no"s that used to come when he reached down to shimmy the underwear off of the girl he'd been grappling with for the past half-hour have changed to silent, unquestioning "yes"es. At this epiphany, there must be much celebration. Girls, thankfully, never got through that. When a woman wants to have sex, she can usually convince her partner it seems like a great idea. (Reason #324 it's great to be a lady.) However, on the flip-side, if we can't convince you to turn on when we are, it's like the Great Depression of 2010. There is much hair-tearing and emotional rending. In short, it really sucks (invisible) balls.

If you worry about mixed signals and accidents, it can get confusing. But what it basically boils down to is that you have to catch us when you think we're "on." And basically, if you think we're on, it's probably because we are, and short of posting it on the evening news along with the traffic report, we're doing everything we can to communicate this point to you. So, don't wait for the next-- make like it's 3 AM in Manhattan and raining cats and dogs, and hail us down.

XOXO

The Mystery of the Missing Man in the Morning

Just when I was getting comfortable with the whole morning-after routine, the dealer throws a new card. Or, in this case, no card, no note, no nothing when I woke up the next morning, to not only find him gone from his bed, but gone from his house as well. There's this one extremely hilarious moment in which a woman, still fuzzy with sleep, reaches over to the other side of the bed, and feels the mattress palm-down to determine if it's still warm, or at this point, cold. It's like playing Sherla Holmes, Detectivette.

Sex and the City did not prepare me for this. Carrie never sat down at brunch one morning and said, "Hey, girls, the oddest thing happened this morning-- I woke up, and Mr. Big was gone to work, with no note!" We never discussed what to do when you are left with bedroom carte blanche! I WAS NOT EQUIPPED FOR THIS. No one, it seems, has ever given much thought to this situation before, or at least, not thought of it as an issue that needed any forethought. We all know, at this day and age, what to do the morning after. But what do you do when you're the last person left the morning after?

There are common-sense general perimeters for this sort of case-- don't still be there when he gets back, because that would mean that I would have slept in...for another 6 hours; pick up and lock up after yourself; and for god's sake, don't snoop!-- but I still was wobbling between secure and frantic now that my training wheels had been taken off. Good sign? Bad sign? Indifferent sign? Maybe he just didn't feel like having to go through any early morning shit-chat today, you know: "How's the weather/What are you up to later/What are the headlines?" Or maybe he just didn't want to have to share breakfast.

So, like Carrie does with Miranda and Charlotte and Samantha, I turned to what I supposed was my best hope for a second opinion: two of my girlfriends, one in a committed relationship, and one committed to having lots of relations with lots of different men, for advice on time frames for sleeping in more and if I should text when I left or not. After echoing each other-- "No note?! Well, at least he's comfortable enough with you to leave you alone with all his things," (I certainly would never leave anyone alone in my room for more time than they could get in trouble in,)-- they came through with the same answer: you should be able to sleep in for at least another hour, but after that, leave quickly, and text to let him know. Done, and done.

On my walk home in bright sunlight and the gently drifting downward leaves of late fall, I was caught between reveling in my extra hour of sleep and worrying. I liked it, being left to my own devices, to wake, dress, and go home at my leisure on my day off. Was I supposed to like it? Or did I really want to be woken up and said goodbye to, properly? Or do I really love uninterrupted sleep more than waking up and having to fit some logical puzzle pieces together to solve the mystery of the missing man? Was comfort a good thing, or a bad thing? And most of all, why had no one ever pulled us aside before, like your girl friends did when they first discovered orgasm, and gave you the play book? Why did they never tell us that this was a situation to prepare for? Who had the answers before this morning? Who still doesn't have the answers?

XOXO

Who Should Make The First Move, Men Or Women? A No-Brainer.

Once and for all: It is the woman's job to make sure that she gives enough blatant indicators that she's comfortable for the guy to make the first move. From personal experience, this could mean not moving away when they lean into you (touching is always a great open-season sign), holding eye contact, or initiating any sort of directional shift to the bedroom. From there, once it looks like the landing zone is free and clear, it's the man's job to make the first move.

You may say this sounds all 1950's Mad-Men-Before-There-Was-Peggy. But let me just explain this to you: I don't think I've ever made the first move, not even once. An ex of mine maintains I did, but I honestly will chalk that up to the fact he was drunk and probably was wishing that I had. Maybe it's just the fact the universe has been very kind to me and I have remarkable kismet radar for the moment when a guy is about to do something, so I always at least try to meet him half-way and make it a joint effort. But whatever it is, it works-- I don't make the first move. And I'm pretty successful, when I'm not purposefully trying to shoot myself in the foot. Like I've said, I'm charming. With a nice rack. Intelligent conversationalist. Doesn't take much more.

After being rejected once (unless remarkably resilient), a girl will not make the next move, even if she's been accepted by this person before. More simply put, "you made me look stupid; I'm not going to make that an option again." It's all on you, men. Any time a girl, or a guy, puts themselves out on a line, anything less than a "yes" equals rejection. And no girl likes feeling cheap. It's a woman's prerogative to feel like work has to be involved to win her over, even if it's really just the imitation of winning her over. I am so guilty as charged as pretending to debate if I would spend the night or not after being asked, when in reality, I walked through the front door knowing that if there was a snowball's chance in hell, I'd being willing to take it and run with it. Most women are exactly like that-- we know ahead of time what the outcome for you will be. If we're there in the first place, it generally means it's a good one. If we are repeatedly putting ourselves on the line, it's a good one. If we've been gazing into your eyes for the past 5 minutes and told you you're the most deep and insightful man we've ever met, it's a good one. If we're standing in front of you and not recoiling in disgust and horror, it's a good one. In Vegas-speak, the odds aren't stacked again you, so you should probably hit it. (Just not in the literal or colloquial connotation. I mean, ok, maybe, yeah, but still...be a little more suave about it.)

Plus, don't you like the feeling of being in control and having conquered something? Doesn't it just make you feel all Russel Crowe in Gladiator-esque? I mean, no, you're technically not in total control-- and you never will be, because we reserve that right (roughly translated: You wanna stick it in? You do the work), and I mean, maybe you did conquer something, like one giant confidence leap for you, one small step for mankind, but mostly, it's about the effort. We like to see effort. You don't think we wear heels and look good like this every bleeding day, do you? No, unless we're Italian women, we don't. That, among other things, is part of our effort. We like to look nice when we see you. We like to have interesting things to talk about. And we don't want our time to feel like a total wash.

So, basically, humor us. Even sometimes when you've been solid with a girl for a while, it would be good to switch things up a little bit, and make the "first move" again. Call or text her first. Touch her first. Kiss her first. Ask her to come over first. Ask her to spend the night first. Ask her out first, or make plans first. It'll get you a long way, trust me. You want something to happen? Don't leave it to chance, or the off possibility that she might decide to strike first out of the blue. You make it happen. Believe me. Women eat this shit up. I eat this shit up. It's what we all live for, save another Sex and the City movie that reverts all the wrong-doings of the last one and doesn't suck. When have I ever not given you the unmitigated secrets to opening a girl's mind, heart, and legs? Trust me on this one. Try it, unless you don't like getting what you want, that is. I dare you to not be successful.

XOXO

The Liar and/or The Lover

Confession: I will read nearly every women's magazine I can get my hands on. I will even read magazines with women IN them, including but not limited to Playboy and Maxim. (Good articles.) So it should be no surprise that my mother co-signed me on for her free subscription to More, and when she and my father spent the night on our pull-out couch last night before flying out for Minnesota this morning, she left me July's O magazine. (Not, as some of you may think given some of my latest posts, "Orgasm" magazine. No, my confused flock, O as is "Oprah" magazine. Commence giggling here.)

Make fun of me all you want (insert hair-braiding, Nicholas Sparks movie-crying, Vera Bradley-loving snark here--), but when I started reading "How To Solve A Thorny Problem" by Martha Beck, I had a full-on, existential epiphany.

"'At first I thought Jack was just a rebound-dater wanting to make a conquest. But he's called every day since our first date, and he's really sweet. He remembers my favorite song, and he reads my blog-- I think we really connected.'

'Sounds like a dream come true.'

'On the other hand, he talks about his ex-girlfriend a lot, and he started hinting at sex 5 minutes after we met.'

'Bad sign. Don't let the whole "favorite song" thing fool you. He's just a player. He's thinking, Oh, yeah, I'm all that.'

'What if both things are true? Maybe he's a man-slut with a bruised ego trying to get someone in the sack, and he's a thoughtful person who really likes you?'" (All quote excerpts by Martha Beck, pg. 37, "O" magazine, July 2010.)

MIND. BLOWN.

I've been dedicating a lot of my (single) (precious) (unpaid) (non-White Collar-watching, though sometimes I space out during commercial breaks) time to doing the flower-NOT-included equivalent of "What The Hell Happened, And Did You Play Me, Or Play Me Not?" As evidenced in this post, I've been struggling with the repercussions of being with men like Jack, and having relationships in which, when they end messily, you look back and can't tell the forest from the trees, let alone the truth from the lies. So which do you choose? Was he a womanizing dick who "didn't care" what you thought, or was he the guy who would call to talk for over an hour "just because I didn't see you today"? And what happens when both actions come from the same man? As Beck says, "...Could they truly have the ideal of angels in their hearts and the morals of goats in their pants?" Is it split-personality syndrome, or just humanity? Which do you choose to believe in when actions and words cross, double-cross, and start knitting scratchy sweaters with each other?

As Beck points out, "If you scrutinize your own life, you'll find you do plenty of things that violate the dichotomies in your mind... We're considerate, selfless, and clever (except for the times we aren't). ...Are you good or bad, fragile or tough, wise or foolish? Your worst habits [are] both destructive and helpful." (Pg. 38 & 39.) We certainly can be our own worst enemies, and many a time have I either heard or said myself something along the lines of, "I wish I knew why I did this or were this way." "But," Beck points out, "things get complicated when you get... a mix IV drip of essential fluids and poison-- when a person or situation seems to provide necessary things like love and comfort but is also the source of pain and upset." Sound familiar? I'm sure we've all lived it. I know I have, over and over to no answered avail at all.

When we find ourselves in situations or with people who nearly seem to force us to choose between one extreme or the other-- love, or hate; help, or hinder; stick, or let loose-- it can be nearly impossible to reach one conclusion because one half of the equation will always be left with with an unsatisfying remainder-- he can't be all bad if he meant what he said here, and here, and here. I can't be too throughly fucked if I've gotten this positive feedback, and this, and that. It's not going to kill you if you learn this lesson, and so on, and so on. "What makes a both-and mind-set so powerful is that it takes you beyond the two choices you thought you had. It opens up new, previously unseen possibilities and opportunities."- Beck.

SO MUCH ZEN QUALITIES. SO MUCH FORGIVENESS. HOW CAN I POSSIBLY MANAGE IT? I'M ONLY HUMAN, WITH AN INCREDIBLY GOOD MEMORY FOR EVERYTHING THAT WAS SAID AND DONE. I'm not (unfortunately) a superhero. I am not the Incredible Forgiving Woman. I am not Buddha Girl. And you're saying I'm going to have to learn how to be? For my own happiness and good? And that of others? So I stop torturing myself endlessly on the mental rack?

Sound like a whole lot of talking yourself in circles so you end up with the conclusion you want, a la Greg Behrendt of "He's Just Not That Into You" get-your-head-out-of-the-sand tough-love? I was thinking this to myself cautiously when I came across this: "...One caveat to all duel-emma relationships: If you or the other person involved can't or won't admit the whole truth-- 'Yup, I have a Dr. Jekyll side, there's also a Mr. Hyde in here,'-- the relationship will become increasingly dysfunctional."

So, does this mean I didn't have a dysfunctional relationship? Does this mean I --gasp-- had a totally normal one instead? There was a lot of admitting going on. There were a lot of big, hairy, ugly truths. But I didn't fully admit to everything. I didn't fully admit to my bad behaviors, and my feelings, and my lies. Was I the dysfunctional part? Admittance is the first step, you say? When is it too late to start admitting? "It wasn't all you; some of it was me, and you should probably know about it, because I'm sorry it made me a raging, judgmental cunt, and I don't want you to spend the rest of your life thinking I got a partial personality lobotomy while abroad"? Something along those lines might suffice?

We're supposed to accept people for all that they are-- flaws and quirks non-withstanding. We do this with our friends, and our family, and our less-than-well-behaved pets, but don't seem to extend the same lax attitudes to our romantic relationships, while completely by-passing it for ourselves in the process. So instead of asking "Which is which, and what are you, really?" should I be instead saying, "This is all that makes up you, and this is all that makes up me, and this is the shit we have to address, talk about, and deal with," once I stop pointing fingers and take a long, hard look in the Morality Mirror myself?

So. The Liar and The Lover. You, or me? One in the same, or just a hopeless case? How does one decide?

XOXO

The Curious Evolution of John and Jane Doe

When we were young girls, we cared about what the other girls thought. If they liked us; if they liked our new dress; if they were talking about us. Boys had cooties, and we didn't care what the boys thought. Times passes. We keep the girls who are close and true to us, and we stop caring about what the rest think-- if they're talking about us, what they're saying, if they like our new dress. It doesn't matter anymore. Skin's thicker. Gossip holds less sway. You couldn't give a shit about what she thinks about you, but something curious has happened-- now it's about what he thinks about you. Boys don't have cooties anymore-- they have the sickness you desperately want to catch.

We care, desperately, about what they think. We want them to like us. We want them to think we're smart and funny and warm and genuine. We want them to like our friends, and our friends to like them, and their friends to like us. We want things to be smooth, but not too smooth that it gets staid or boring-- just smooth enough to be comfortable, like their old worn-in t-shirts.

We pretend, after it's done, that it doesn't matter, that we didn't care that much, that we're absolutely fine. You can all pretend, and you all can act, all you like, but when it comes down to it, this is usually a performance put on before a clever audience who knows your stage tricks, so about the only thing that you have left to perform with is your dignity and hopefully, a mutual respect for what you had together.

Even if this happens, we still don't want to believe curtains are curtains. We want to believe that we cannot be left. We want to believe that coming back is possible. We want to believe that we are special alone. But the truth is that we are all readily replaceable, like parts-- not the whole machine. True, without some parts, it won't work, won't function at its best. But others will suffice. It'll keep moving.

As Patience and I sat up till 4 AM last night and compared notes about this, we came across a curious phenomenon-- despite all this insight and all the fieldwork from dating for years, we still cannot makes heads or tails out of what the lies we were told were, and what the truths were. Is it that you care about us, or do you just want to bang other chicks? Was it the weed or beer talking, or did you really at one time think we were something special? How much said was a quick charm, and how much said was true? Were you sincere? Or are you just an extremely accomplished player? And will we ever know the truth?

When it comes down to it, it's just one huge game. Like dating chess.

XOXO

The Tell-Tale Heart

I know Facebook has ruined us. Do you want to know how Facebook has ruined us? Because for what was probably the past three hours of my sleeping life, I grappled with a dream which started out pleasant and involved two loves of my life: men, and pie, and yet progressed into something that made my heart-- literally, I felt my heart-- plunge to somewhere in the vicinity of my toes when in my dream, I saw It. That thing that all girls secretly dread. The terror of the internet. The scourge of Facebook. "_______ is in a relationship with _______." That little pink heart has never been more ominous.

When I woke up, I promptly lunged for my laptop, just to make sure it wasn't true and I hadn't been sleep-web-surfing like how I sometimes have to wake up and grab for my phone to see if I really was sleep-texting or so-fucked-up-you-might-as-well-be-asleep-because-you're-not-gong-to-remember-doing-it-in-the-morning texting. The rest of the dream I could brush off as kinda ridiculous-- running down the road, looking in houses for someone you have no idea how to find (oh, that's telling!) and who remains, decidedly, not a character in the rest of this dream, but instead, a blue and white profile with a new pink heart on it; an 18 year old, baby-faced, cowboy hat-wearing new girlfriend who kinda looked like Bret Michaels had actually succeeded in fathering a child with one of his Rock of Love floozies, having a traumatic breakdown on my shoulder while the only decent thing to do was hold a tissue for her to blow her nose while consoling her because, "I know how he can be, sweetie." It rang so true I couldn't even get mad when she blew snot all over my toes and her parents told me how perfect they were together over what seemed to be a feast straight from Henry the VIII's table. I mean, there was a woman ladling split-pea soup straight into her mouth, for chrissake. How am I supposed to take a dream like this seriously?

The point is, I did. The point is, I woke up with a start, gasping and bolting upright, and then scrambled down to the foot of my bed and grabbed my laptop to check-- just because. Just because it felt so real. Just because I am that terrified. Just because it brought to my attention that any day, that could be a real possibility, and I am, as evidenced, nowhere near prepared for that. I guess what they say about dreams bringing out your subconscious fears and desires is true-- in which case, I am a mess. Facebook, you've finally fucked me over.

XOXO

P.S-- In other news, you have 5 days to become my 48th, 49th, or 50th follower. (Which is a great birthday present to me.) And there's $1.14 that stands between me and a check from Google, which would really be appreciated as I am currently investigating the laws of prostitution for some gray area and not quite the same severity as a sentence for robbery/forgery/extortion/embezzlement, as those are my 5 options at the moment to afford summer rent.

Pussy-Whipped: Not Just For Men.

Women, more so than any other creature on Earth, probably have the best hold on the sixth sense. Women have this knack for just knowing things-- like how your mother always knew when you were up to no good as a child, or how every woman, whether she plays deaf, dumb and blind or not, suspects when she's being cheated on. Hence, where women's intuition came from. Unfortunately for the holders of such intuition, as with any gift, sometimes you just try to deny what's right in front of you and kid yourself out of actually having to address what were formerly hunches into cold, concrete evidence. You know, the American way. Usually, this presents itself in perfectly sane and smart women going a little bit nutty when they don't want to admit to themselves that despite fighting the good fight, they have probably lost the battle. Not the whole war, mind you, but in this skirmish, their Custer fell. There will be no big calvary homecoming.

Last night, I found myself standing on the side of the curb in the dark, asking one of my closest guy friends, "How much of a fool am I?"

I like relying on men to back my hunches up because most men cannot lie in the face of a surprise question worth a shit. Now, I know you may like to think you do, but as an accomplished liar and someone who seems to seek out other liars for liaisons such as friendship, jobs, and relationships, everyone has their tell. Men's tends to be the widening eyes and flying eyebrows. The slightest slowness in answering tells you volumes. Also, rapid blinking, or lip-pursing once they have digested what you just said are are trying to give you the best and true advice possible without sending you searching for the nearest and highest bridge.

"I wouldn't say that you're a fool," my friend said, "but I think that you didn't need to do that."

About when the men in my life tell me that I've once again over-stepped the boundaries of sane human action is about when I start to admit defeat and face what I've been trying to hide from knowing inside my own head. My boys are my mirrors that I can't hide from. So I'll agree with them here: pussy-- either having one or getting it-- is enough to make you crazy. In the immortal words of the farmer in "Babe," "That'll do, pig-- that'll do."

In other news, the Hailey's Ungodly Comet of Exes (see: "Ghosts: Night of The Living Undead Relationship,") has cycled back around to Burlington and sent me an email, so something tells me that as always around this time, big changes are in the air. Every single time he has returned back to Burlington, regardless of if I decide to see him again or not, I am either settling into a relationship, or someone new is right around the corner, usually following on his tail by 2 or 3 days. And this is not any Red Sox statistics, here-- we're 4 for 4 with this sucker. Understandably, this fills me with a sense of impending doom-slash-skepticism. Nothing quite like being jet-lagged and having to say "No, thank you; go away," while keeping your wits about you. Again, past is past. On with the present and the future.

XOXO

The Argument For Airline Alcohol.

Nothing screams, "AA, take note!" quite like sitting alone in the dimmed lights of an empty hotel room in Zurich with 3 beds, yet just yourself, trying, and failing, to write something of any decent mien, and instead, finding yourself Googling "What sort of vodka does Swissair serve?"

Ok, so, I know I've been a bit of a whiny bitch today. And I apologize. Really, I do. But after airport security makes you cry in a room full of people (horrifying), your flight gets delayed two hours and then lands only for you and 49 other tired, upset, homesick twenty-somethings to find out that SURPRISE, your plane left without half its passengers and you are now stuck in a neutral country 5 miles outside of the city for at least a night and the better part of the next day with no cash, no idea what language they're speaking or what exactly Switzerland is other than a place with great banks, lots of gold, and nice watches, and a feeling that the more times you instantly respond "Si," and "Grazie mille," that you are juuust at the tip of the culture shock iceberg...I defy you to step into those grody shoes and not feel just a little bit put out.

Short of begging, "Make it better, make it better, make it better," I really don't know what to do with myself. And then again, that doesn't so much involve me as it just involves someone other than me solving my problems. So, if you were one of the people who received a very whiny, bitchy, Chicken-Little-esque "The world is falling, and it's volcano ash on my head!" phone call from me today-- this is the part where I say, "I'M SORRY." Bear with me. I'm upset and alone and don't know exactly what it is I should be doing in this situation. (Mom, you're included in this, because even if you are my mother, I shouldn't make you feel worried that I'm about to take the closest boarding ticket stub and start sawing it violently across my wrists.) I'm just in an awkward place right now. I ran away from real life for three months, learned a new language that I habitually can't stop speaking, and now I'm scared to come back home, when yet, I'm just so tired of being on the road and in train stations and in taxis and waiting for planes to board and alternately being hassled by or hassling airport security that there is no place else I want to be, desperately. I'll say it again-- I'M SCARED. So although you may hate to lie, I guess right now that the best thing you could say is, "It's going to be ok." I won't fully believe you, and you won't believe yourself, but the point is-- someone has to say it, and as someone stuck right in the middle of it all who can't see up from down anymore, I can't.

That's a lot of confessions for the night, so I'm just going to go back to my little cliched tableau of writer, empty computer screen, and misplaced frustration. And the sound of the Absolut-shaped water bottle's neck clinking against the rim of the tumbler, the sound of glass on glass and the soft and reassuring glug, glug, glug that it whispers? Well, oh, temptation...now I completely understand why they serve copious amounts of alcohol on planes. Here's hoping I get mine tomorrow while reclining somewhere over mid-Atlantic.

XOXO

Miss Communication

Communication is a funny, funny thing. But like any one-sided joke, I feel like one side of the conversation is always left hanging and unamused.

Some people are great communicators. Some people can talk and talk and talk about everything from the weather to their job to their passions to themselves to what the next door neighbor did this morning with his wife to their own desires to what other people desire. Some people are bad communicators. Some people are good listeners. Some people are me and will gladly pull teeth before they start to converse about their emotions. Some people are awkward communicators.

And then there's men.

This recently came up while talking to a friend who was wondering why a guy hadn't responded to a text she sent him.

I thought about what she said for a minute, weighing in with my personal experience before responding, and trying to be as helpful as possible. "I would have said something more than 'Happy Easter'. I 'Happy New Year' and 'Merry Christmas' and 'Happy Thanksgiving'-ed, and never got responses back. Many men have never responded to my holiday greetings, and both men that I have and have not slept with. I think men just look at those texts, grunt, file it away, and move on with life. Or devouring whatever cavebeast they just managed to maul and kill."

Personally, I think we women would get a lot further in keeping their attention if our clothing designers started using bacon as a fabric.

This frame of mind is pretty much the only thing that makes me keep my shit together when I myself send messages that never get responses or aren't returned. Though I am pretty sure at this point that it is standard male procedure to read messages, respond to them in their mind, and then go back to whatever it was they were previously doing, sure that the telepathic message will get through, no bad feelings meant, nothing makes me want to sit in front of my computer more, fuming, and then scream like a she-banshee and bash the stupid little "no messages" or "empty inbox" icon with the closest heavy object. (Most likely, a shoe or the Murano glass ashtray.) Here is a thought: Sometimes, even if it is not required, or you don't think it's so very important, a response is not only nice, but proper good manners.

No one is perfect-- at the moment I have three outstanding messages to get back to, and one is over a month old-- but it's the effort that really counts, even if all it is is an "Ok" or an "I'll see you then." One of my favorite guys of all-time was the best friend of a guy I was seeing who never once failed to respond to a message, even if it was a text back saying, "Hey, I got your text." When I met his mother, I gushed about what a great guy and great communicator he was for a solid five minutes. She was astounded and proud. I understand. It's a rare thing these days.

Little things like that make all the difference to some people. Like the person who just sent you that "Happy Easter" text or that "Hey, here's a reminder" email. So, um, here's a hint-- RESPOND if you care for that person or your previous and continuing relationship with them just even a little bit. Thank them, wish them the same, then end the conversation when you tell them that you're busy with your family on the holidays instead of leaving them guessing. If you're too swamped with work to take the time to answer their questions and write back, a brief "Really busy-- I'll get back to you ASAP," will suffice and give them better peace of mind. Yeah, you shouldn't have to jump to it and constantly be responding to texts and emails and messages, but really, when someone takes time out of their day to wish you good feelings or let you know that you're on their mind or that they want to check in with you and make sure things like your 8 PM dinner appointment are still on, take a second-- just a brief second-- and let them know that you care, too. It can be a three word response, but it's still an acknowledgement. Don't push people away or upset them when it can be easily remedied. Life is too short. People mean too much.

Agree? Disagree? Want to tell me how we shouldn't be chained to our personal messaging devices and be expected to wait on them hand and food? Tell me. C'mon. Respond. That's what that comment box is for.

XOXO

Repeat Mistakes

I’m getting to that age where it’s perfectly acceptable to sit around with my girl friends and discuss marriage. And that’s scary. I would like to freeze time right here, please.

Earlier tonight, five of us were sitting around the dining room table in our apartment discussing the fact that now that we’re in our twenties, the search for the Eternal Happy Ending, or, at least, a 2-point Engagement Ring and Iron-Clad Pre-Nup, is on. Though some of us aren’t actively looking, or some of us, in fact, aren’t looking for that storybook ending at all, we all could agree on one thing: Being with men is getting scary. It’s a total Goldilocks syndrome for your twenties: you’re scared out of your wits if you’re perfectly happy with them and see it ending all rosy and blissful, but you’re also scared shitless if it doesn’t seem like you’re getting anywhere with them.

“It’s so weird to think that the next person we’re with could be our potential future husband.”

“But I feel like every guy I date is just getting farther and farther away from who I would want to marry.”

“That’s why I like Sex and the City. Carrie didn’t get married until she was sure he was The One.”

“That’s the inherent flaw,” I interjected, having been over this thought a few times before. “Making the same mistakes over and over again isn’t called ‘failure’. It’s called ‘dating’.”

Two weeks ago, I downloaded the episode of SATC in which Carrie first says “I love you” to Mr. Big. When he doesn’t return the statement, she proclaims to the Ladies Who Brunch crew that unless he antes up within a week, she’ll have to end their relationship. When I watched it, I was initially floored. How could a woman end a relationship right after she admits to something like that? Isn’t that kind of the equivalent to Indian-giving or saying, “Oops, just kidding”? Isn’t that a bit quick to retract all those big emotions?

I get it now. You can say what you want and what you feel, but there are some things that you have to do because in the end, keeping yourself and your dignity is worth even more than anyone else is to you.

Maybe it’s because I’m an only child. Maybe it’s because I’m not good at sharing my feelings, or, in fact—sharing. Maybe it’s because I’ve been screwed over one too many times. But during my two day hike in Cinque Terra, I did a lot of thinking, because other than focusing on screaming calf muscles or the fact that my smoking has finally caught up with my respitory system, I had a lot of time to mull it over, and over, and over again. There’s nothing quite like being alone in nature with your thoughts. Coming back to Florence and civilization clinched it for me.

I’ve always been preoccupied with looking out for Number One first, something that I lost sight of in Italy, of all places. It’s not selfishness—it’s self-health-ness. My eternal problem is that I give and I give and I give and forgive and forgive and forgive, until the point where I’m not happy with myself, my lot in life, or what a push-over I’ve become. I am willing to do a lot for other people. But I’m done with the competing to prove it. The only thing I am not willing to do is sacrifice myself, or that maybe-unpromised Happy Ending in whatever form. I am young, and I am alive, and I am in Italy—quite possibly the Land of Love. If there is nothing else to love, there is always the sights and the sounds and the smells and the newness of living here for three months, which is not something I’m ever going to be able to get back. While there will always be some things you can work at, there are others that are fleeting and fresh and will never appear again. So it shouldn’t be squandered under dark clouds of doubt and regret and indecision and unhappiness. I’m not going to keep counting down the days until I leave. I am going to live instead for the Now and the Here and the Why Not? And if you want to squander, you can live however you wish.

If I can get out relatively unscathed, with my dignity still attached, then I’ll keep moving on and making my mistakes. As Passion Pit says in their song “Little Secrets” (on heavy repeat on my iPod), “Let this be our little secret; no one needs to know how I’m feeling.” There is no feeling quite like finally making up your mind. I feel lighter and more content with life than I have in months.

So maybe your twenties aren’t for being afraid of what’s ahead. Maybe your twenties are for wild abandon and enjoyment; late nights; new things; drinking and smoking too much; discovering yourself and new places; making up your mind, and brief moments of clarity and maturity. Maybe, as Carrie discovered, there is time later to go back and mend bridges if want be.

XOXO

Really? REALLY?

I normally feel like I need actual content in order to post, but I think this is honestly all the content I can handle today.

Doing my morning check of the blogs, I scrolled down SATCG to see if there were any new reactions (yes, I check those, too,) and almost died.

Why, you ask?

Well. I took a screen cap so that you, too, could experience that delightful, brief moment where your eyes send the information to your brain, it processes it, your heart stops for a second, and then you don't know whether to laugh or cry hysterically.

Men's sheer thongs are being advertised alongside my blog. I DO NOT CONDONE THIS. Not at all. Not one bit. Not even a little.

So, in the spirit of this morning, I am writing an addendum to my "Why You Should Never Say "Panties" And Why Victoria's Secret Is The Best Kept One" blog entry. It is entitled, "Why Did You Even Make Me Need To Go Here?"

"While I will admit that VPL's (visible panty lines; proven to make gay men cry and women cringe,) are something no one should ever be subjected to, sometimes, you just have to suck it up and not wear jeans so tight we can tell where your boxers bunch. Men, this goes for you. Because if there is one thing I know, and believe me, know well, it is this-- there is a place and a time for a thong, and it is not, is never, will never be, on a man. At least, on one I'm trying to get horizontal. Or vertical. Or on any plane between the two angles.

I don't know how to spell this out for you any better than that a banana-hammock is not an attractive thing. Let's face it; some people just shouldn't wear thongs. I don't see what the big deal is in the first place-- a 24-hour wedgie is not the best thing in the world. So, men, WHY would you subject yourself to that in the first place? There are no leggings being worn; no ass-hugging dresses. Or, maybe there are, and then that mystery is solved. In that case, mozel tov."

(The men's organic underwear is only slightly less upsetting, as well. Isn't it enough to eat organically and recycle? Does your ass really need to be green, too?)

That's it for the day. Going on a last-minute trip to Burlington with the Twinny!

XOXO

The Not-So-Perfect Ending.

{ My Goodies-- Ciara} <--- Means "listen to this, please." See what I did? I'm kinda workin' a theme, here.

So I feel like I deserve to tell you the end of the "Me & Perfect" story. The Final Chapter, if you will. What happened right before I finished that book and apparently, single-handedly, snapped it shut and threw it in the fire.

Perfect and I got into that Epic Fight September 30th. We haven't talked since. Which may be partly because I may or may not have said some really nasty things. But hey. It's not all my fault. My defenses go up when you start blaming me for shit. I'll do a basic recap of WWIII for you:

Perfect: "You're getting too attached again!"

Me: "Excuse me, what could I get attached to? You're 3 and a half hours away. I never see you anymore. I'm sure you...busy, AKA: fucking your way through your freshmen class and any upper-class ladies you can get your big paws on. I'm BUSY."

Perfect: "Well, it just seemed like you're putting too much into this and getting too committed with all the things we've been saying and doing and all the nude pics I've been somehow convincing you to send me without even having to work for them. But short of ogling your strategically covered body, I can't commit like that right now. And you're going and committing!"

Me: "I'm just a tease. JUST LIKE YOU ARE. You're a great guy, except when you're being a complete asshole, like right now, and yeah, sometimes I wish things could be different, buy they're not. Look, I'm driving home from the gym. Can we continue this lovely blame-fest when I get home?"

Surprise, surprise, I didn't heard back from him. And I still hadn't. The other day, after realizing that I hadn't been seeing anything from him on my Stalker, errrr-- Newsfeed on Facebook lately, I went to go to his page to only find out I have apparently been unfriended either by him, or Facebook went on a binge and deleted half of his friends list like half of it is now missing, I did not, A.) Flip a shit, B.) Send him a snark-tasic message asking him to explain his incredibly juvenile actions, or C.) Call him and pick WWIII back up. Instead, I have decided to just brush it off. Whatever. I didn't think our fight was honestly that unforgivable, and I was hoping we could at least try and remain friends considering all that we've been through, because as he said, "Yeah, but I've had sex with you."

But after everything that's happened with Jersey Blunt, I'm starting to realize just how short and unpredictable life is. Add leaving for Italy for four months and a trans-Atlantic flight, into the mix, and I am feeling very, very mortal. And yes, I've been missing Perfect lately, too. There's nothing like one person going missing from your life to bring the other players hiding in the shadows out and to your attention. I miss the good times we had. I miss knowing he was there for me when I needed him. It felt real bad when all I wanted was strong arms to hold me, and knowing I don't have that luxury because the one guy who was always there for that hug is dead and gone, and the other one who might do that for me is silent, almost 50 days going. I'm not taking that for granted, anymore. So I got off my high horse of Pride and texted Perfect today.

"Hey, how are you?" I asked. "Surviving college?"

"Good," he responded. "Who is this?"

It was like a sucker-punch to my gut. But I guess I deserved it-- all the deletion from his life. I said some pretty nasty things.

"Wow, ok," I said. "It's Carissa."

"Hey, yeah-- I'm doing good," he told me.

"Awesome. Look, some things have happened in my life recently and made me realize I really don't want to leave things nasty from the last time we talked. Basically, I guess I'm sorry."

The whole time I drafted this text, (possibly the first time I've actually said "I'm sorry," to a guy,) I was sitting at work, looking at Anthony and going, "If I say, 'I guess I'm sorry,' it still counts as saying 'I'm sorry,' right?"

Can we tell I have a hard time saying this? If it's all my bad, I'm fine admitting it. But, let's face it-- he started it. I don't want to be fully culpable for this mess.

"Yeah, it was kinda weird! But I understand," Perfect said.

"Yeah, it was. Thanks for understanding," I told him. "Hope life's good!"

That was it. Swallowed my pride; made up (kind of), and lived to tell the tale. I feel so much better. I miss that kid.

But now I may or may not feel like the outcome of my dating triumph rides on whatever is going on with Gypsy ending well. It's not rebounding, per se-- it's just the fact that the two of them are so alike and I've been doing such a good job correcting all the mistakes I made with Perfect in what's going on with dealing with Gypsy that if I honestly can't pull this off, I'm going to feel like I failed miserably twice.

But really, I can't figure out what he wants from me. I'm not used to being considered a "prize," something to tap and be able to say, "I tapped that!" As I told Anthony today over dinner when he and Dos asked me why I was with a guy like Perfect in the first place-- heavy on the muscles, lite on the vocabulary-- there are some guys girls date just to say that we landed that; to admire for how warm they are, how nice they smell, how good they look, how much weight they can lift. Yeah, it may seem a bit shallow, but men, when you protest, let me ask you: why are you waiting for the girl with the bangin' body and niceness when there's that average girl friend of you who's super-intelligent, charming, and well-spoken? We're all only human-- we all like looking at nice things.

I'm just not used to being the "hot" girl. I'm not used to being the girl who gets asked over to sit on a sofa and look pretty while not being talked to. I'm not used to being the girl that your other friends stare at. I'm dying for some equal treatment, here. I'm dying for something other than a night that involves the alcohol that Gypsy mistakenly thinks will magically lower my jeans. (Seriously, better chance of me sleeping with you when both of us are sober than when we're drunk. I learned that lesson, and learned it hard.)

So, uh-- how do you tell a guy this without coming off like a total gold-digging tease? Seriously-- you know my "I buy my on goddamn food!" issues-- it's not like I'm asking for a free meal, here. I'm just asking for the sort of old-fashioned, formal acknowledgement of a status that can only be achieved by looking at someone in public (not in their apartment, not a frat house, not at a party in someone else's basement,) while masticating something that counts as sustenance. ("Chewing"...for those of you who instantly went to dirty places and are too lazy to open a new tab, go to Merriam-Webster online, and look it up. I live to serve-- I aim to please.)

Short of getting my ghetto on and telling him, "Playa, I ain't lookin' to be played, so y'all better make up your mind like, right now and we can either fuck and go our own separate ways, or you better be making an honest woman out of me," I am really at a loss. I would like to again make the point that we really are like two supremely socially awkward teenagers about this-- he has yet to make a solid move, and I have yet to throw him a bone. Call me a hopeless romantic, but I'm the sort of girl who really just wants a guy to grab me and kiss me. Fuck the gentlemanly shit at this point-- if I'm crawling into your bed and spending my Thursday nights out with you, I'm not flashing conflicting signs. I'm only talking to Greece more because he actually talks to me. I'm leaving because I refuse to be like any of your other girls and sit and wait for you to come home. I'm a flirt; you don't pay attention, and I'll find something more fun to do. I want you to do something here-- fight for it. Show me it's worth giving it up.

Or I'm gonna bounce to the next. I'm not the most patient girl. And I need reassurance, too.

Sure, he's a player. Sure, if it has a pulse, moves, and owns a vagina he'll make a pass at it. Sure, it's all very casual to him. But sure, it's also getting very casual quickly for me, too. I'm a ticking time-schedule, here. I would like to make something happen there sometime within the next, oh-- week. I'm feelin' it.

Here's to making up, and making out.

XOXO

And Not-So-Sweet Goobyes.

Please allow me to make up for all the time I didn’t post with the most epic of Epic-Posts.

Back-story:

Tuesday, Perfect strayed back into the territory of “We Might As Well Be Dating” when he sent me a picture message of the 1 pound hamburger he devoured for lunch. He was so excited about this feat of digestive strength, the excitement continued through the rest of our afternoon discussion. Every text was promptly responded to. He was sweet. We were funny. It was great. I felt, again, like I had my boy back.

Wednesday afternoon, while I was on a ropes course with the rest of my Peer Advising staff, being piggybacked and carried around by men for hours, getting my ass groped by my friend, and watching people hang suspended by rope on a high-wire far above my head, I got a text from Perfect. Actually, my cell phone, which was located in my bra cup because the white spandex leggings and old blue soccer shorts I was wearing didn’t have pockets (oh, such a winning outfit!), received a text from Perfect, making my right boob vibrate like it has never vibrated before. There was some spastic movement to get it out, but it was worth the whole shocking endeavor when I read that he was coming to Burlington on Thursday, but didn’t know what time yet. He was driving home, and by the time I could respond to him, was out of service. Boo. So later that night on Facebook around 11, I caught him on Facebook chat right before he signed off and went to bed to tell him that I was in training until 3:30 and please, pleeeease could he come in the later afternoon/evening? “Ok, I will try hard,” he told me.

“Ah, yes—thank you,” I said. “Now g’night with you.”

“Nighty night,” he said. I wished him sweet dreams and in response he gave me the sort of Perfect answer that one must imagine him saying with a suggestive tone, possibly with an undercurrent of, “yes, sweet dreams about you and me having hot, hot, sweaty, animalistic sex.”
“Oh, I will.”

Or maybe it was me that had the dreams about him and I having hot, hot, sweaty, animalistic sex. Guilty as charged.

What Should Have Happened:

Perfect, by all accounts, should have gotten into Burlington around 3:30 on Thursday afternoon. Because Cait and I had already discussed the fact that she wanted to go shopping with him, and I wanted to give them their alone time so he and I could have our alone time later, she was supposed to go home quickly after training, drop her stuff, and meet him on Church Street to take him away-to-college shopping. (This is one of their things they’ve been doing together for years, shopping.) Around 5:30 or 6, when they were done bleeding debit card money to Burlington’s retail establishments, he was supposed to come over to my apartment so that we could have some chill time alone together and catch up. Just really laid-back, fun stuff. We can’t shut up once we get on a roll, and plus, I wanted to take him on a walk to the underpasses to show him the amazing graffiti there, because I know that’s something he’s interested in. At some point, when I felt comfortable, I was just going to say, “Look, last time we talked seriously, you pretty much told me what you thought was logical and what you wanted, and I agreed to give it a try. Well, I tried, but it’s not working for me. I still feel the same way I did about you in May and June, and I honestly think we should just give this a try. It doesn’t have to be serious—in fact, I would be great with it being casual. But if we try and it works, then it works. If it doesn’t—no harm, no foul. But I think we’re missing out on a lot of fun stuff we could be doing, and I’d like to give us a try again.”

If he said yes, let’s give this another solid effort, theoretically, we would then fall madly into the closest possible bed, (hopefully, mine,) and have earth-shattering sex. Then I would whip out my trusty planner, we’d schedule our first visitation weekend, and then celebrate by having some wet and wild shower sex. (This is that “fun stuff” I alluded to earlier: sex. We basically have a relationship without the sex and this point, so wouldn’t that be fun to add?) I would visit him, he would come up to see me, it would be great, the sex would be amazing, and life would be generally beautiful.

If he said “no, I don’t feel that way,” then I would counter with a very polite, “well, then I’m confused, because that’s not what I’ve been hearing from our friends,” and delve a little deeper into the Is-He-Scared-Or-Is-He-Just-Over-Me? debate. In the end, if this were my answer, I would know to shake hands and call us good friends, get back up in the saddle, and start looking again. But he would know. And that’s all that would really matter.

What Really Happened:

Perfect and I kept in touch all day Thursday with check-ins and planning. I wasn’t sure if Cait knew he was coming, and she wasn’t sure if I knew he was coming, so by the time we both spoke up and but our heads together in joint effort with Perfect around 1 PM, I thought we had a pretty good plan worked out. Cait would meet him at 3:30 when we got out of training downtown. They’d shop and get their time together to catch up and say their goodbyes. Then Perfect would come to my apartment so we would get out alone time to catch up and try and work things out and say goodbye. (And, again—possibly fuck our brains out.)

Instead, when I texted him at quarter after 5 to check in and see if he was being close to done with Cait, I got an interesting response. “Cait’s on her way now.”

Ummm, excuse me?

Apparently, Cait had decided that today, yes, TODAY, THIS AFTERNOON, while Perfect more or less patiently waited for her by wandering around Church Street and bought two shirts at American Eagle, it would be a good time to get another piercing.

“I don’t know if I will be able to get over there!” Perfect texted. “I got a late start!”

“What time do you have to leave?” I asked.

“I was hoping to be home at 7, but that won’t work, lol,” he answered. It was, by then, almost 6:30.

“Uhhh, no, I don’t think so—hahaha—but I’d like to see you regardless of where you are, so please don’t leave!” I, um, I guess I almost begged.

“Well, if you want to come to Church Street real quick, I can say hi and bye.”

“Livid” does not begin to describe my emotions. In fact, “livid” now needs a new definition, because I far surpassed its limits.

“Oh my god, this is bullshit,” I texted back before I could control it. “Where are you; I’ll meet up with you.”

“Me and Cait are just walking out of Urban Outfitters. I need to leave soon. This was a real quick trip for me, sorry.”

I looked at Emily, who had happened to come home with me and witnessed this entire debacle, and I swear to god I felt smoke trickle from my nose and ears.

“This. Is. BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT!!!” I screamed while applying more mascara, grabbing my keys, and forwarding those texts all at once. “That’s IT! This is IT!”

I slammed out of the apartment, into my car, and rocketed downtown while blasting some…I can’t remember what it was—I think Matchbox Twenty. Yes, that’s right—“Push.” Because I was damn tired of being pushed and pulled around like this.

“Where are you?” I texted Perfect after parking at the top of the parking garage.

“The mall on Church Street—Pac Sun.”

By the time I got to the mall, I still hadn’t calmed down. People were visibly avoiding having to be near me. I could feel the anger crackling around me. It’s a wonder I wasn’t shutting lights off, something I normally do when my body’s energy gets out-of-control mad. (Yes, I’m a power gremlin. I can’t wear watch batteries, use motion sensor-activated sinks, toilets, soap or paper towel dispensers, and I occasionally turn off store- and streetlights.) I took a quick trip to the ladies room for one last look. And that look was manic. I called Emily to try and have her calm me down as I walked to Pac Sun, listening to her soothing voice and thinking Zen thoughts. I walked into the store, and did a lap. No tall, hulking manbeasts. No mutual friends.

“That’s it,” I told Emily. “This is going to be his balls on the floor of Pac Sun.” And then I turned around just in time to watch Perfect and Cait walk in the door behind me. Perfect looked wary and possibly, a little scared. Cait looked oblivious. Also, significantly more dressed-up than she had looked a few hours previously. So, she spent her time while she was supposed to be with Perfect going home, showering, changing into a cute dress, doing her hair and make-up, getting stuck with needles, and then commandeered my time. Great. What friends are for, right?

“I’ve got to go,” I told Emily. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Don’t kill him,” were her last words to me. “I don’t want to have to visit you in prison.”

As I looked at Perfect, looking at me, I was struck more by what hadn’t changed than what had. He still had the same look in his eyes the day he did when we saw each other after sleeping together—that looks of, “hey, I really like you,” along with a look of, “we’re here; what’s going to happen now?” But it was pushed back further and hidden with wariness, and dropped eye contact. We both circled around each other, almost sizing the other up as we did our, “hey, what’s up?”s. He became infinitely interested in a clothing rack. I lifted up a hoodie’s sleeve. We existed in the same place as each other, just standing there, soaking it in, our little psychological feelers testing out the waters, the vibes, the attitude. No one spontaneously exploded. He tried a hoodie on. I tried on a coat.

“That fits you really well,” he said. We looked each other dead in the eyes, the first lingering eye contact since we’d been together. I saw them, then, really, and it was as I suspected— nothing had changed. He may have gotten a little sharper and a little more guarded with me, but then again, so had I with him. But when it boiled down to it all, it was him and me. It has always been him and me. Cait drifted around, either clueless or pretending to be. I calmed down a bit.
And promptly got worked up again when after buying said hoodie, Perfect turned around and announced, “I’ve got to get going. I was supposed to be at John’s house at 7.”

“Ok,” I gamely said as we walked out of the mall. “How is Mullett?”

“He’s good,” Perfect said as we all stood on Church Street. “Man, I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” Cait said, rubbing her stomach. “Well, I’m staying downtown.”

Perfect looked at her. “Hey, I need cash for parking,” he told her, and she goggled at him for a minute before cracking her wallet open. I was impressed at his balls, but then again—only fair. If she made him wait for longer than the 2 hour free parking, then yeah, she should pay for it.

Money now in hand, Perfect and I both vacillated. “I’ve got to go back to the parking garage,” he said as he and Cait traded bags so they had all their individual items separated and in hand to leave.

“Oh, which one? I’m parked at the top of that one,” I said, pointing.

“So am I.”

“Great—walk back together?” I asked, and Perfect and I both looked at each other. A loaded look. Yes. Our five minutes alone.

“Yeah, great,” he said. We started to turn in unison.

Cait saw. “Hey, Perf, would you please drive me to Flatbread? I’m meeting Heather there for dinner.”

We both turned back and gave her the sort of incredulous look that people usually only make in movies. My mouth may or may not have actually been hanging open. This was the most aggressive semi-cock-block I’d experienced of my life. “Are you shitting me?” I wanted to say, shaking her. “Flatbread is one block down the street. You’re going to make him drive you there so that he and I get no time together? Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

Instead, Perfect gave a shrug and a look and said, “Yeah, sure.” Ok, so I can sort of understand this—you never deny your best friends something. If Nora or Alli or Melissa or Caiti were to say, “hey, give me a ride from your mailbox to your house?” I’d shrug and say whatever and get my car keys out, too. But really—am I alone in thinking this is completely unacceptable, childish, selfish behavior THROUGHOUT on her part?

So our (un)merry gang of three trooped up the stairs to the parking garage, chatting about tattoos and college and how I was going to throw Cait off of the parking garage roof the first chance I got. (Not. But I would have loved to somehow work that into conversation topic.) Perfect led us to a Jeep Wrangler, and I stood behind it, looking at it a bit unlovingly. A.) The Douche drove only Wranglers, making his way through 4, and B.) it wasn’t the loved/hated 4runner.

“New car?” I asked as Perfect put his bags away.

“Naw, it’s my dad’s,” he said, turning back around and coming to stand closer to me where I stood on the driver’s side of the car. Cait, who I had thought would at least have the decency to get in the car and give us some quasi-privacy, stood at the other side of the bumper. Perfect started playing with the rubber that lined the frame of the car door. Cait got the hint and put her bags away.

“So,” I started. “I really would have liked to get a chance to hang with you, but oh well. When do you leave, again?”

“Saturday. School starts Monday.”

“Oh, well,” I said, shifting from side to side, uncomfortable as he watched me. “I’ve got Orientation to work at, and then classes, but I’ll call you when things settle down. Pass on my wisdom and stuff like that, ok?”

“Ok,” he said. “I’d like that.”

And then he came up to me, hunkered down, and gave me the best hug of my life. For two people separated by a solid foot of height and a proverbial elephant in the room, we mesh together so perfectly, it was hard for me to let go as he held me and rubbed my back. As always, one of his massive hands spanned my entire back, warm and comfortably heavy, just so there. I clung on to his shoulders, and closed my eyes, breathing him in, the scent of boy—clean laundry, forest air, soap, deodorant, and musk. The same smell that still lingers on my sheets and in my pillows. The same smell I’d know anywhere. We stood like that for a good thirty seconds, and then like little cracks fracturing us apart, let go, little by little. It felt like a sculpture being chiseled apart. Or maybe that was just my heart.

We said goodbye, and I walked across the roof of the parking garage to my car. The Wrangler revved to life, and I stood by my car, pretending to look for my keys and waved back as Perfect and Cait drove by, waving—Cait, enthusiastically; Perfect, a single deliberate rotation of one hand from right to left. Goodbye. And then, they were gone.

I sat in my car, gulping down dry sobs because the tears wouldn’t come, blasting “Kiss The Rain,” and wondering if this was it. I turned my engine over, drove up to the Admissions building of my college that sits conveniently overlooking Main Street, and ran across the parking lot to sit on the porch and watch cars drive by. I knew Cait—she would dawdle saying goodbye to Perfect when he went to drop her off at Flatbread, and traffic was bad. Sure enough, 10 minutes later, I watched the Wrangler chug to the top of the hill and looked across at Perfect, sitting so solid in the driver’s seat, a bit like a salmon in a sardine can. And although that bitch may have gotten his last minutes, I was the last person to watch him leave Burlington.

I went home and ran two miles in the trails by the river about, mad at him, mad at Cait, mad at the situation, and mad at myself. Alli and Dan found me an hour later and took me out for ice cream, or rather, a stirring rendition of “This Is Exactly Where I Was Three Hours Ago,” complete with “we’re parking one spot over from where Perfect parked,” “we’re walking down the stairway we walked up,” “we’re standing on the street where we stood,” and “oh god, I feel like shit.” When a lady accidentally stepped on the back of my foot in Ben & Jerry’s, the only thing that kept me from turning around and taking her out with a flawless right hook was the fact she looked like my mother. When two college guys hooted after me and my short shorts, I almost turned around to harass them back.

“Do we need to take you to Mr. Mike’s tonight so you can get in a fight?” Alli asked me.

“YES,” I answered vehemently. Something in the way I said it or looked when I said it must have made her reconsider.

“Maybe not,” she amended nervously.

With help, I drafted a text and sent it to Perfect at 9, not expecting a response back until the next morning. “So I’m not gonna lie,” it said. “I was a little disappointed about today. I really would have liked a chance to spend a little more time with you. Would you be free to meet tomorrow in MontP middayish?”

As I was driving Emily home around midnight, I got one of the great shocks of my young life. At 12:11 AM, Perfect texted me back. “I got to get college stuff going! What do you need to talk to me about?”

“It wouldn’t take long, I promise,” I texted back, while driving. (Very dangerous—don’t follow in my example.) “I’d just like a chance to actually see you before you leave.”

“I don’t know! Can we talk on the phone?”

“I’m driving my friend home right now and I’m hella tired after last night…I’ve got the morning free so it would just be easier if we could make that work. And I hate phones, if you can’t tell by the texting, hahaha,” I replied, trying to keep the tone light.

“I am busy, though.” Stubborn. Obstinate. A little bit mad and peevish. This is both Perfect and I I’m talking about by this point. It was like 12 rounds of passive-aggressive text-boxing—I’d punch him with a “visit tomorrow,” and he’d counter back with a “call me now” punch of his own. Neither one of us were giving in, so I dug in.

“When are you not super-busy tomorrow, or if you have to go into town for anything anyway?”

“Atta-girl,” Emily coaxed from the passenger seat beside me. “Don’t let him win! Don’t give in! Don’t give up!”

“I am at home packing and have plans with friends and need to take care of the dogs! So we can’t talk on the phone? What’s so important? You’re creeping me out! Lol.”

Now, for any men reading this, telling a woman she’s “creeping you out” is pretty much the recipe for an instant fight. Emily watched me puff up and tried to deflect. “I’m sure that’s not what he meant,” she said. “You know, like ‘freaking me out’ or ‘making me nervous,’ not creeping like "creepy"!”

I’d give her that, and looked over at her, flushed and hot with nerves and anger, but voice still droll and sarcastic humor still intact. “Well, he just saw me. It’s not like I’m trying to tell him I’m three months pregnant with his child. Or going to profess my undying love to him. So I guess no, I’m not creepy.”

Instead, I texted this back: “”Well, you’ve been freaking me out, so join the club! I just want to clean slate before you leave and I’d rather be able to do it in person because it’s easier for me than calling.”

And then Perfect made the mistake that broke the argument’s back: “Clean what slate, I am really confused and drunk right now with friends.”

Ok, so, not only are you admittedly DRUNK, but you’ve been furiously texting me for the past hour now in front of your friends, so, excuse me, but wouldn’t that appear a little awkward? “No, we’re not together, but I’m going to text her and ignore you and get into a very couple-esque argument about seeing each other over here in the corner while we’re supposed to be out chilling together.”

I hope his friends are as confused about us and I am, because that way, I’m not alone in this.

“Then this definitely isn’t the time to debate this. I’m tired and driving,” I told him with finality.

And then, Perfect did something I would have never expected from him. “Ok, drive safe, bye,” he said, and then he turned his phone off. End of conversation. Firstly, he NEVER tells me to drive safe—that’s my line to him. Last-ditch effort to say, “I’m mad at you but I still care.” Secondly, Perfect NEVER gets mad. And thank god, because I bet he can Hulk up really quick. But no—Perfect does not get angry. Perfect gets mildly annoyed. It is mind-numbingly hard to get a rise out of Perfect, and him turning his phone off is the equivalent of another man yelling and throwing things. Or storming away for “a drive” as some prefer to do. I have to admit, I was a bit perversely pleased that I was able to get a rise and response out of him like that. If I could crawl under his thick skin enough to instigate that response, it’s got to mean something, right?
And in other news, that was out first real fight. Spats, we’ve had before. They blow over, but the next morning when I texted him to say “Hey, good morning, I’m up—let me know when you have coverage so we can continue our 12 rounds,” and watched the little green Verizon check-mark appear ten minutes later when he got coverage and the message was received but not responded to, it was obvious that this wasn’t just going to “blow over.” Whatever. I was still pissed. The “creeping me out” comment still stung, hard. And I didn’t have much riding on the chance I’d get to see him again before he left, either.

So I was surprised that evening when in the middle of a dorm’s first hall meeting I was attending during freshmen Orientation when my cell rang and it was a text from Perfect. “Hey,” was all it said. But “hey” is how Perfect makes up for all our little disagreements. He always texts me back first to try and make up before I text him, and his “hey” is a joint “I’m calmed down” and “I’m sorry.”

I love his “hey”s.

“Hey, I’m in a dorm meeting for my job—can I text you back when it’s over?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

After the meeting, I sent him a text back. “Hey—so I think we had a massive communication breakdown last night. I was just really tired and cranky and wasn’t communicating well to get my thoughts across.” (And that’s as far as I’ll get to saying “I’m sorry.”)

“Ok, what did you want to tell me?” Perfect asked. “Just go for it.”

This is where my little brain started to churn to life. Why the need in Perfect to talk and for me to say something? All I ever asked for was to hang out/chill out/see each other in person. Not once, and you can check back in the texts, did I ever say something like “we need to talk” or “I need to talk to you.” The closest I came was saying I wanted to see him to clean slate. He was the one who came up with all the talking. Huh.

“No, that’s the thing—it was more of a chill thing since we didn’t get to really see each other yesterday. But, you know, I’m sure there would have been talking, otherwise it would just be weird.” Again, trying to keep tone light.

“Yeah, sorry,” he apologized for it again.

“Yeah, it kinda sucks. Will you be in coverage later? I’m eating but I’ll call you after.”

“I might be.”

“Ok. It’ll be like, 10/20 minutes.”

So, after eating and generally gnawing on my fingernails and cold sweating, backed up by the lovely Marissa who so nicely agreed to patiently sit on the stone wall behind East and watch me pace on the phone so if anything went wrong I wouldn’t be alone afterward to do something drastic like lie down in the middle of the pavement and wait for a car to run me over, I called Perfect. That’s right, my little fingers went down the contact list in my cell phone, found his real name, which, for the slow of you out there, is not, in fact, really “Perfect,” and pressed send. He picked up on the third ring, and I was yet again reminded that his voice starts somewhere around his kneecaps—possibly, even his ankles.

We chatted for six minutes, about this, that, and everything, except for US. Now, this may not seem like such a stellar performance, but let me remind you it only took us three and a half to break up. We talked packing, or lack thereof, as he got called into work; roommates and worries (how he and two other guys are supposedly going to fit into a men’s double with one shared refrigerator;) my day; about my “fun and weird” little quirks (his words, not mine,) when fire trucks with sirens blasting passed him on his end of the line and I had to tell him that due to my sensitive hearing I’d have to hold the phone away from my ear until they were gone; how we were both bummed we didn’t get to spend more time together and was he sure that he had no time this evening? (“No…I’m on my way to dinner with my parents now and then I have to pack, and tomorrow morning I’m going over to John’s house before I leave to say goodbye to him and his family,”) and just general other little things. He told me his game-plan for heading to school, when he started classes, etc. I told him about working freshmen Orientation and how he better participate in his icebreakers because they’re a bitch to organize.

It was funny, though—he was audibly nervous, stuttering a few words, “umm”ing all over the place, and repeating statements. It was sweet; it was cute; it made me light up and go flirty. We both worked hard at bringing “us” back to normal and making up, and by the time he told me he was at the restaurant and had to go, I felt good. “Ok, good luck with everything. Safe trip. And I’ll talk to you soon,” I told him. Though I didn’t get to give him the speech, it had occurred to me halfway through our conversation that it was ok—it was more important to make sure we were ok than to further rock the boat. I’d wait a few days—let him settle in to college, let me get through my first week of classes, and then we’d go from there.

After I hung up, Marissa looked at me from across the parking lot. “I could hear him,” she told me. “He’s got a sexy voice!”

“Yeah, I know,” I told her. “Whales can hear him it’s so low.”

Truth.

The thing that drives me crazy, however, is that one night, I’ll go to bed sure that it is over and done, and that was Perfect’s final chance and he’s made it clear that he’s over it all, over me—and then the next day, it’s all sunshine and smiles and hard work and apologies from him, and I rest my head on that same pillow that 24 hours ago I was sure was my Bed of Pain and this time, am convinced that he is one of the best people in the world and I adore him. (All considered, though, and I’m not saying this just because I’m dick-whipped, but he is a pretty stellar human being. And I’m sure he’s even better-seeming if you’re not romantically involved with him and don’t have to deal with the hot-and-cold bullshit.) It’s all so very emotionally taxing. My feelings aren’t used to this much whip-lash. Normally with my men, it’s cut and dried: they’re dicks who don’t really want to work for anything, so don’t expect much. With Perfect, it’s almost the complete opposite: if something goes down in a way not planned or doesn’t end well, he’s perfectly contrite and willing to meet me somewhere half-way to make up for it.

…Most of the time.

What’s Happened Since Then:

So, it’s now the third of September. Perfect has been away for six days, and, strangely, that’s how long it’s been since I’ve heard from him. I’ve sent him three texts that were received, but not responded to, and I know he’s alive because he’s been on Facebook posting. I get that life is different. I get that he’s adjusting. I get he’s busy with classes, and I get that his family was apparently still there on one of the days I texted him. But honestly, this is scaring me. because I also understand that he’s off meeting new people, and some of those people will be cute girls who will just be dying to get with him, and I can get a little insecure. The longest we’ve ever gone without talking was for six days when I ran away home and then to Saugerties because I was so mad at him I COULDN’T talk to him. This is weird.

I thought we were ok. I thought we had made up and were back on track. I thought he wasn’t mad anymore. But honestly, I have no idea what’s going on with him. Alli brought up a valid point that maybe, he kept bringing up talking because he knows EXACTLY what’s going on and wanted to hear me say it. Emily seconded her with another good point:

“If he’s the one who broke up with you, and he wants you back, he’s not going to want to be the one to say if first and look like an idiot who made a huge mistake. He’s going to want you to say it so he can then agree and he can save face. He may be scared to look like he was wrong. And you’ve been so chill with him and staying friends that he may honestly think it’s ok with you, and that you don’t want more. And by you saying you just wanted to “hang out” and deflecting all of his attempts to “talk,” it might really seem that way to him.”

Huh. Apparently, I may have been too cool of a cucumber. If that’s the case, and he does think I feel only platonic for him, the silence can be explained by him being away and trying to get back over me. What do you think, dear readers? Is he wanting to talk so we can banish the elephant in the room and he can straighten things out by saying, “no, I think we should just be friends,” or could he also be waiting for me to say the words “I want you back,” first? I’m honestly at a loss for this one.

Or, he could just me mad at me. But WHYYYYYY?! What does this uncharacteristic silence mean? I may have to actually ask Cait, who I’ve been generally avoiding due to latent anger and grudge issues since her stunning little immature performance last Thursday. (Oh, it’s been a week since I saw him. Ohhhh.)

Anyway, I’m calling him tonight if I don’t hear back from him before then. Even if he doesn’t pick up, I’ll still get to leave a message on his answering machine and ask what his damage is. Marissa and I will be downtown to meet her beau, so it would be a good time to be somewhere where I can’t flip the fuck out.

I’ll let you know how it goes, and until then, darlings,

XOXO

P.S-- And of course right as I publish this, he texts me back, but then doesn't answer the next text I send asking if I can call him later because I'm running off to class...of course. So confuzzled. As I said to Alli, "At least I know he's alive, unless he's figured out a way to text from the grave."